Weight of a Soul
by OUATLovr
Summary: A ficlet from Death's POV of the scene between him and Sam in 9x01.


He stood, gazing at the flames roaring in the cabin fireplace, waiting for the next soul to arrive. The list today was tremendously short, and so he had time to wait, and he spent it watching the fire, though he couldn't have said why.

There was something almost...calming about those flames, where the humans would find them unsettling, would fear them.

He wondered if Sam Winchester still feared the flames, or if he found them as comforting as Death did.

It was an interesting choice, this cabin, for the catalyst of the most important decision of Sam Winchester's life. Ironic, that this choice of importance was of whether or not to die.

But Death would not have pegged the Whitefish cabin as the setting of this final game, if only because the subconscious mind made little sense, and Death would have thought Sam more nostalgic. He had always imagined that the mind of Sam Winchester was complicated, but was still rather pleasantly surprised that the boy with the demon blood was still able to surprise him.

Death had imagined that Sam might choose the junkyard home of Robert Singer, before it had been burned to the ground, or even his first home, in Lawrence. The fact that his mind picked the little Montana cabin, though it had hardly been a home, in Sam's mind, for half so long as either of the former, interested the First Reaper greatly.

It was only one of the many reasons why he had insisted on collecting Sam Winchester's soul himself, rather than sending a Reaper to do his bidding. Perhaps he had come simply because Sam Winchester fascinated him in a way that few mortals could ever claim to do. But not in the same way that Sam's brother's bravery fascinated Death.

He did not normally invest in the lives of mortals, doomed as they were to die, and yet he kept encountering these Winchester boys. And the more he did so, the more he found himself wanting to do so again. The Boy with the Demon Blood and the Sword of Heaven.

He supposed he had what could be called a soft spot for them, but he was not so certain that he would have come to collect the elder one, given the choice.

He might have given that honor to Tessa, and he still could not say why.

And...he had come because the boy who had saved the world several times over, who had thrown Lucifer back into the Cage and stopped the Apocalypse, still saw himself as the Boy With the Demon Blood.

This alone puzzled him, more than God's decision to allow Lucifer to be cast out of Heaven to wreak havoc, rather than simply killing him.

Behind him, he heard the nearly silent steps of young Sam Winchester as he stepped into the cabin, the sharp intake of breath when he saw just who stood in the living room, clearly waiting for him.

"Hello Sam," he spoke, turning slowly, one hand gripping tightly to the bone-hilted cane he carried with him. "I've been waiting for you."

Sam took a deep breath, glancing back the way he had come as if considering flight, but he did not move. He knew, as did Death, that it was useless.

None could run from the Final Horseman, not even the Winchester brothers, though they had certainly given Death a run for his money, over the years.

Death gestured to the two plush chairs in front of the fireplace, a flicker of amusement crossing his features as he played the host in a home that belonged to Sam more than he.

Sam did not look around, and he did not see the many objects littering the walls, the many pictures that could not have possibly been taken. And so the younger Winchester did not see the framed photo of himself, shooting down a wraith, or of Dean, bent over the hood of that dreadful little Impala of which Death did not fully understand his obsession. He did not see the little army men circling the walls, standing as if in protection, or the plastic slice of pie that sat beside the fireplace. He did not see the painting of John and Mary Winchester, arms wrapped tightly around each other, or of the mural of Jessica Moore, which hung just behind Sam.

Sam Winchester's mind was a fascinating place, indeed.

They sat at the same time, Sam uncomfortably glancing at his guest while Death sat calmly, the picture of serenity.

Of course. It was Sam facing Death, not the other way around. He certainly had cause to be nervous, as all did.

"I must admit, when I heard it was you...Well, I had to come myself." He was excited, or as much so as Death became while wearing his ring, though it did not show outwardly. To be collecting the soul of the boy who stopped the Apocalypse, who destroyed thousands of years of prophecies with one single jump...well, there were a few souls that it delighted and saddened Death to reap, and Sam Winchester's was one of them.

He eyed the young man, noting the way he wouldn't meet Death's eyes, the way he stared down at his bruised hands as if they somehow held the answers he searched for.

"I bet you get off on this," Sam said finally, and Death had to force his cool facade into place, in an effort not to laugh at the boy's snarky attempt at bravery.

He was taking it rather well, his imminent death, and Death was not one to mock.

"Perhaps," Death said, shrugging. "But not in the way you assume. I consider it quite the honor to be collecting the likes of Sam Winchester."

The boy looked up then, confusion flitting across his features. Of course. The famous guilty conscience of the Winchester brothers. They had certainly not inherited that from their father, as far as Death could determine.

"I try so hard not to pass judgment at times like this," Death continued softly, as though they discussed the weather, undeterred by the young man's utter lack of faith in himself. And it was a half-truth. So many of the souls he collected, even those of the angels, were merely a waste of space in the world, and yet he kept himself, for the most part, detached when he came for them. "Not my bag, you see. But you...Well played, my boy."

And he meant it.

Sam swallowed, glanced away again. His lips twitched, and, when he spoke, it was not to say the words Death had been expecting.

"I need to know one thing."

Death leaned forward, resting an elbow on his thigh. "Yes?" he asked, genuinely curious. Most people, when Death had the annoying misfortune of collecting them, wished to know the meaning of life, or whether or not their families would live long and hearty lives, or where they were to spend eternity. They were all valid questions, and Death endeavored to answer them as patiently as he could, time after time.

And yet, he did not think any of these would be Sam's question.

"If I go with you," and now Sam was leaning forward as well, the bruises around his eyes highlighting the desperation in them further, "can you promise that this time, it will be final? That if I'm dead, I _stay _dead. Nobody can reverse it, nobody can deal it away, and nobody else can get _hurt_ because of me."

Death paused before he answered, considering. He had to confess, no one had ever asked him this question before, when he came for their soul.

Sam Winchester had not disappointed him, not even in death.

Death was silent for some time, watching the boy carefully, to make sure this was truly what the boy wanted of him. There were many who attempted to strike deals with Death, at the end of their lives, and most, he turned away. But he always kept his word, when it was given.

"I can promise that," Death spoke finally, solemnly. And felt the weight of another soul placed upon his shoulders.

Sam's soul was lighter than Death had expected, but far heavier than most of the souls he collected. It was weighed down with the guilt of a thousand men and an irreparable sadness, and yet the light that glinted off of it was what fascinated Death so about Sam Winchester. It was a light that few saw in the boy, not carefree or happy, as most souls with such a light were, but righteous and compassionate. And in many ways, that was far more intriguing to Death.

Death knew then, that he would have a difficult time letting go of this soul, when the time came to drop it in the realm of the dead.

Sam nodded. "All right," he said, but he made no move to stand.

Death had expected as such. There were many who, when faced with Death, needed time to adjust to it in their minds, and he was more than patient, unlike many of his Reapers.

Sam stared down at his hands again, at the faint scar that marred his left palm. He didn't speak, and Death was content to sit in silence, to twirl his bone-hilted black cane in his hands as he waited.

But Death could not be delayed forever, and, though his list today was short, there were still other souls that needed attending.

Standing, almost sorrowful at having to collect this soul, a feeling he had not experienced in some time, if ever, Death sighed. "It's time, Sam," he murmured gently, in no mood to rush the boy.

Sam nodded, standing nimbly to his feet.

"Shall we?" Death took a step away, and then he felt it. Another presence had arrived, though it was not yet visible to Sam.

There were very few with the ability to delve this deep into the subconscious of the dying, and Death knew immediately that the voice attached to that presence could not have made it here on his own.

He turned his back on the presence, tapping his cane on the hardwood floor in irritation. He wasn't in the mood for this, and Sam had already agreed to come with him. Why the Winchesters were constantly playing with Fate was beyond him. Especially after seeing the state of Sam's soul, when he had returned it to Sam's body. He had known, even then, that Sam would not survive much longer with it, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was some power, besides the boys' own stubbornness, that had brought them this far.

"Hold on," a voice that was not only that voice interrupted, and Sam jumped, spinning to face it.

"Dean," Sam said finally, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Death closed his eyes, refusing to look upon the creature that had come to steal the boy back to the land of the living.

Oh, he was not angry. It was not within Death's power to be angry very easily, and such anger would not have been directed at a helpless mortal. He supposed the closest emotion he felt, if, indeed, that was what it was, might have been irritation.

Dean Winchester, though he knew that it was not only Dean Winchester. Yet it was also not that arrogant little angel that the Winchesters so often associated with, and, for a moment, Death did not recognize the trail this angel left behind.

When he did, when he had identified the old angel whose cowardliness had caused all this...pain in the first place, Death wondered if Dean truly understood the stupidity of the choice he had made in this foolish attempt to rescue his brother.

But Death said nothing, only waited. Waited because this was Sam's decision, not his own, and certainly not Dean Winchester's.

He looked like Dean Winchester, and the lies he spouted over the next few minutes were certainly those that only Dean Winchester could know. Likely he was tapping into Sam's consciousness as they spoke, stealing the half-truths he needed to make Sam believe them.

That, or Dean had handed over the words that would convince his brother to live.

The angel was a crafty one, Death would give him that. But not so crafty that he could trick Death, though, and Death could only shake his head at the stubbornness of the eldest Winchester, to go to such desperate lengths to keep his brother alive.

Did he not see, as clearly as Death did, that this was what the boy _wanted_? What his soul yearned for?

Death sighed, glancing at the angel in Dean's image. Yes, he had done quite convincingly. If Death were a mere mortal, he might have believed the charade himself. As it stood, Sam did not have a chance.

Sam believed that this was just another figment of his subconscious, the part of him that wished to live, if Death understood correctly.

Fitting, that he would choose Dean Winchester, of all people, to represent _that_ part of his soul.

Death knew better than this, however. Death, who could see beyond the cracks, could easily sense Gadreel, once beloved angel of the Lord, standing with Dean, guiding him along. How the likes of Gadreel had managed to talk Dean Winchester into something like this was beyond even Death.

Dean Winchester was a foolishly brave man, but he was not foolish.

"It's okay, Sammy," the figure spoke, and Death turned to award it a look of irritation, but stayed silent.

Silent, because here, he was a neutral observer, not a challenger.

Dean turned to him then, frowning. "I, uh, woulda brought croughnuts, but, time is short, so..."

Permission. That was what this angel wanted from Death, what he was using Dean to obtain. But not just from Death.

Death, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, turned away. "By all means," he gestured to Sam, the prize, and took another step back, as if to signify that he had no wish to fight for the younger Winchester.

For a moment, Death was tempted to speak up, to warn Sam of what this really was, of who had brought this image of his older brother here, but he did not.

"What's going on?" Sam asked warily.

"I have a plan," and Dean sounded so hopefully naïve that Death almost felt sick. If he were at all capable of feeling illness.

"It's too late. I'm going," Sam insisted, and, though Dean clearly believed the words, if the look of horror on his face was anything to judge by, Death was not sure that Sam himself did.

"No," Dean reached a hand forward, as if that could stop the boy if he were still set on the course. "No, no, no. Listen to me."

"Why are you even here? I'm not fighting this anymore."

Death raised an eyebrow towards the older Winchester, wondering how he would counter this.

"You have to fight this!" Dean cried out, desperate, pleading. "I can fix this. Okay? But not if you shut me out."

And, to Death's surprise, Sam Winchester turned to him, eyes pleading for guidance. For someone else to make this decision for him.

For, oh, Sam Winchester longed for the mercy of Death. Death could feel it, in every ache of the young man's bones, in every breath he took. He _wanted _to go with Death, wanted to end the hurting that he _always_ inflicted on those around him.

And if the decision were up to Death, if he did not already know that he was beaten, he would have taken Sam anyway, would have spared him the hurt that would continue with him when he awoke.

But Sam Winchester was the only one who could make that choice.

"It's not his time," Dean said, turning once again to Death and pleading. His eyes were wet, pleading, and Death was reminded that he was willing to make a deal with the Final Horseman to save his brother. What would he not do for Sam Winchester, even this?

Part of Death wanted to denounce that as pathetic. That Dean Winchester was so desperate to have his brother at his side that he was willing to allow Gadreel, of all the angels, to possess him. Another part of him, perhaps the human side that longed for fast food and a day of freedom from Death, couldn't help but admire him for it. Couldn't help but think that this bond, this never-ending cycle between the Winchester brothers, was the reason he found them so fascinating to begin with.

Death eyed Dean coldly, his irritation only growing at these arrogant words, as he struggled to keep his true thoughts from his face. "That's for Sam to decide," he reprimanded gently, as if disciplining a child.

And then they were both looking at the boy, waiting for a response.

Death already knew what the boy would say; he wondered if the angel pulling Dean's strings did, as well, or if he was as equally nervous as Dean.

"Okay, Sam, listen to me," Dean tried once more, and Death couldn't help but ponder if that desperation was Dean's, or the angel's. "I made you a promise in that church. You and me. Come whatever. Well, hell, if this ain't whatever. But you gotta let me in, man. You gotta let me help."

And Sam glanced at Death once more, torn. He seemed to be waiting for Death to make an argument, to attempt to convince Sam to stay.

Death was silent.

"There ain't no me if there ain't no you," Dean tried again, desperate to break through the cracks.

Sam shifted on his feet, looked down at that hand again, then back up at Death, before nodding once.

"What do I do?" his eyes returned to Dean.

Dean looked surprised. "Is that a 'yes'?" and Death resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. Angels and their semantics.

He almost spoke then, but, if he had, it would not have been to warn Sam; it would have been to warn his foolish older brother off this course. A course from which there was no return. At this point, though, Dean Winchester was beyond any reasoning that Death might have been able to provide. This was, after all, the boy who had sold his _soul_ for Sam Winchester.

Sam bit his lip, glanced at Death, who only watched with raised eyebrows, a patient stare. It was almost as if the boy was apologizing to Death for what he was about to do.

"Yes," Sam said finally, gasping out the word, and Dean smiled in relief.

"Come on," he gripped Sam's shoulder, and was no longer Dean, just as Death had known.

Death watched impassively as the angel took hold of the youngest Winchester, took control, and said nothing as they both vanished in a terrible flash of light.

Because he had known, the moment Dean arrived in that cabin, that Sam Winchester's soul was lost to him. At least for now.

It would return to him in time, a bit more frayed around the edges. The "predestined script," as he explained his lists to his Reapers, spoke of that.

He only briefly wondered whether Dean was prepared to be the adminster of those destroyed pieces of Sam's soul, when the time came for his own to be collected. Dean Winchester could not possibly know the folly in what he had done, not yet. But he would.

And, one day, Death would collect that weight upon his soul, as well.


End file.
